Ollivander's Oath
by Tom a Mild Overlord
Summary: How is Ollivander supposed to stay in business when a unicorn hair costs more than a unicorn hair wand? Hermione wonders why no one bothered to ask. Also, Ron does Hermione's taxes.


The sign swinging half-askew in Ollivander's doorway had always read _Established 382 B.C._ Hermione was here because a shaky hand now pronounced the shop _Disestablished 2017 A.D._

The new Minister for Magic grasped the loose door-handle and gently tugged it open, the hinges creaking like the joints of old bones. Hermione stepped into the shop and paused a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness _._ The sole source of light emanated from a small window, revealing bundles of wands in various lengths, all of which had collected a layer of dust at least half an inch think. The familiar, musty smell had been tinged with the dry dustiness. She raised a hand to her mouth and coughed. Her hand twitched at her side – as tempted as Hermione was to brush the wands clean, she didn't dare touch them, understanding the damage a wand could do when handled by a person it did not choose.

Hermione walked carefully down the length of the shop, still eying the wands in obvious need of cleaning. Then her eardrums popped and she let out a short shriek. A small bang and an almost purple flash of light drew her focus to the corner to her immediate left, the explosion having been obscured by a tall shelf.

Hermione jumped at the noise. Then she took a deep breath and placed a hand on her pounding chest. "Oh dear," said a shaky male voice. "That was quite a fright." The man hobbled around the obfuscating shelf with loud, arrhythmic steps. "A customer… I'm sorry, but Ollivander's is not open for business. I'd have a closing sale, but I'm sure I'd just find myself even deeper in debt." He spoke with an edge in his voice that she couldn't quite place.

Hermione had been startled into doing what she probably should have done thew moment she entered the shop, and muttered "Lumos." She blinked twice as the light stung her eyes, which had only just accustomed themselves to the shop's darkness. Ollivander had always been scruffy, but Hermione thought that even he had seen better days _._ His eyes were unfocused and surrounded by a ring of darkened flesh, contrasting with a dull paleness of his face.

Ollivander's lips curved upward, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Ah, Minister, I wondered when I'd be seeing you."

"Mr. Ollivander," intoned Hermione, "just what is the meaning of all this?"

"Ah… meaning, of course, everything has to have a meaning, right? There must of course be a very good reason for an establishment that has existed since Roman times to abruptly end its legacy. And there absolutely must be a wonderful, fantastic reason that in the world of wandmaking, the whole is less than its composite parts!" Ollivander reached a hand into a nearly crumpled, off-brown paper sack. "Care for some beans? I've got..."

Ollivander examined the tiny grays, yellows, whites and reds in his open palm.

"Salmon, black pepper, cumin, white bread and this little gray one here that I'm rather excited to try."

Hermione took a slight step back. "Er, no thank you, I'm quite alright"

Olivander shrugged, "Suit yourself; though between us, they aren't my favorite either."

Hermione took a breath. "Mr. Ollivander, just…. Why? Why is the shop closed? What exactly are you doing behind that shelf? And Merlin's Beard, why do you have that sack of beans?

Olivander raised his hand to his mouth and let the candy slide down his throat. "Hmm, not as bad as I expected," he appraised. "But really Minister, why is my shop closed, you ask? Perhaps I got tired of wandcraft, and I chose to spend my days alone in this dark room with nothing but wands and cobwebs, these bangs and flashes my only solace!" He chuckled. "No, Minister, my shop is closed and your little children don't have wands because a unicorn hair is worth more than a unicorn hair wand!"

"And what exactly are you charging?"

Ollivander frowned. "Nothing, seeing as I'm, you know… out of business!?" His voice raised in pitch slightly, have crossed itself between a rasp and a whistle.

"Mr. Ollivander," Hermione sighed, "I mean before that."

"Oh, seven Galleons per wand. Quite reasonable if I do say so myself."

"Yes, and the unicorn hair?"

"Ten Galleons at a bargain."

Hermione's raised a single eyebrow. "So why didn't you just raise the prices – I don't know, sell the wand at thirteen Galleons, and actually make a profit? It's called inflation, Mr. Ollivander – it's basic economics!"

Ollivander inclined his head forward. "Why Minister, surely it has never occurred to me that as Gringotts mints new coins and wages gradually rise, that manufactured goods must also rise so as to continue to turn profit. But poor foolish Ollivander is lost in an economic time warp. Olivander's prices have remained constant since Arthurian times at exactly seven Galleons, never a Knut more.

Hermione expelled the breath she had been holding. "That is all well and good, and I can tell that you are upset, but we really must get on with it."

"Very well, Minister. The truth of the matter is, I do want to raise my prices to meet today's market, but I swore an oath never to raise the price of my wands."

The Minister's eyebrows shot up her forehead and nearly past her hairline, so fast and so high it looked as though they were trying to escape her face.

"Are…are you quite serious?"

He nodded slowly.

"What possessed you to do such a thing? It is a noble sentiment, but surely you could not have been that short-sighted."

"It was not my oath alone. As I said, my family has not increased prices since the end of Antiquity. And as you said, it was a noble gesture. My distant ancestor publicly swore an unbreakable oath, such that neither he nor his descendents would ever raise the price of his wands. You see, during that period, the wizarding community of post-Roman Britain was under assault by Saxon and Pictish raiders. My forefather, in his infinite wisdom, declared that all wizards should be able to afford a wand for self-defense. It worked quite well, and since the prices remained so low for so long, we undercut our competition to such an extent that we became the sole wand shop in Britain. But eventually we began selling at a net loss and had to borrow from Gringotts to stay afloat. And now the goblins will come here within the week to repossess this place. They're going to take my wands away!"

"Mr. Ollivander, I believe I have a solution–"

His eyes bulged and he leaned in uncomfortably close – she could feel his breath on her face. "It's a conspiracy, minister. The goblins knew it would come to this, and when they get their grubby green hands on this shop, they will take away all my wands and… and… "

"Oh, stop it!" snapped Hermione. "The goblins are not going to take your wands away! You are the only person in magical Britain who knows how to make wands, and as ridiculous as that is, we all have a vested interest in your shop's continued survival! If you had come to me earlier, I would have told you that the Ministry would subsidize you, and that you would be paid the difference of your under-priced wands and their actual value. It would not violate your oath and you could eat some real food for once!"

Ollivander backed away to a less pungent distance. "A subsidy… well, I suppose that would work."

"It expect it will. Let us discuss this at the Ministry. We will work out a payment scheme that will allow you to stay in business and actually live like a proper human being."

With that, Hermione led the wandmaker out of his own shop, past the dusty, uneven bundles of wands and cobwebs large enough to catch a quaffle. Ollivander's once erratic footfalls almost settled into a rhythm as Hermione pushed open the door and ushered him out, following only when the man cleared the entrance. She stepped outside and craned her neck at the defaced sign. She'd handle it later – they had much to discuss.

Paying bills wasn't Ron's usual chore. Hermione had found his attention to detail and the fundamentals of arithmetic lacking, and preferred to handle the task herself – accidental tax fraud would be unspeakably embarrassing coming from the home of the Minister herself. But she was away on business often and taxes, like death, waited for no one. Therefore Ron stepped in from time to time, under strict instructions to triple check everything he did. He obliged with minimal grumbling – though he might not like it, he was used to her being right, so he just went with it now.

Ron sighed and sat down at his wife's large oak desk, pushing aside the neatly stacked documents on the polished surface. The stack congregated at the far edges and were fast losing their shape, spilling forward onto the desk – forming what to Ron looked like a neat mess. Everything was mostly in the same spot, so he figured she wouldn't mind too much. He opened the first envelope and carefully withdrew the parchment.

Ron unfolded it to its full length, and with weary eyes tried to read letter by letter and line by line. As his gaze made it to the bottom of the page, he brought the bill up close to his face. His eyes narrowed, going over it again and again.

Ron put down the parchment when he heard the high-pitched squeak of the front door, and them the quick footsteps that grew louder until the flushed figure of his wife entered the living room. She brushed a sweaty lock of brown hair from her face and set herself down on the cushioned chair opposite the desk.

"So, um, was work bad?" asked Ron.

Hermione exhaled. "Ron, would you please get me a glass of ice-water from the kitchen?"

"Sure, but something's up with these taxes, was there some kind of mistake?"

"Get me my water and then we'll talk."

Ron shrugged and drew his wand, then picked out a glass and filled it with water and ice cubes. His incantation sent the glass floating into his wife's outstretched hand. She pressed the glass to her lips and drained it in one gulp.

Hermione set the empty glass aside. "You were saying something about the taxes?"

Ron rotated his chair to face Hermione. "Yeah, I read the statement carefully, just like you said, but I checked three times and our taxes have tripled since last month! What have you lot been doing in there, building a new Hogwarts on the moon?"

"It was the byproduct of our solution to the wand shortage. If you hadn't noticed, Ollivander's had gone out of business."

"Well, I do remember hearing something like that. But, Hermione, what I don't get is why we all don't just go someplace else," said Ron, scratching his head.

"There is nowhere else. His is the only wand shop in all of Britain."

"You'd think it'd be pretty busy then, right? How could it just go out of business?'

"It's an odd story, but one of Ollivander's distant ancestors swore an oath that neither he nor his descendents would ever increase the price of their wands."

"So what does Ollivander's oath have to do with our taxes?"

Hermione considered an explanation, then discarded it in favor of another she thought more suitable for her husband. "The ministry has agreed to subsidize Ollivander's such that his operations remain sustainable and profitable."

"Huh? What's that mean?"

Hermione pressed a sweaty palm to her forehead. "It means, Ron, that we increased taxes to bail Ollivander out of debt."

"But why should we have to pay if he screwed up?"

"Because Ron, if we don't, our children don't get wands and can't learn magic."

"Oh, right – but then shouldn't the Ministry be paying?"

Hermione counted to three under her breath, and only when she drew breath again did she rebuke her husband. "Oh honestly, Ron – where do you think the Ministry gets its money from?"

"From our taxes...oh, right."

"Do you want me to help you file them before I go to bed?"

"Nah, Hermione, I can do it. You've had a long day."

Hermione got up, walked over to Ron, and planted a dry kiss on his forehead.

"Thank you."

"Get some sleep – we don't want our Minister coming to work looking sloshed."

"Of course, Ron."

"You know, because, otherwise the goblins might break into Ollivander's shop and take all the wands, or something."

Hermione patted Ron on the head.

"Erm...goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight, Ron."

And at that very moment, Ollivander stood underneath the wooden sign swinging still askew in the shop's doorway, dunked a quill into a levitating ink-pot, and crossed out the words _Disestablished 2017 A.D._ in two manic strokes.


End file.
